


Tower of Babel

by sunstarunicorn



Series: It's a Magical Flashpoint [50]
Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, Criminal Minds (US TV), Flashpoint (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Merlin (TV)
Genre: Gen, Mixed-Up Languages, Serial Killer, Slaughterhouse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:47:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22349785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunstarunicorn/pseuds/sunstarunicorn
Summary: In the middle of a hot call, Spike’s connection with the team is severed, sending his teammates racing for his position.  Just as the closest teammate reaches Spike, a second attack throws the pair into the middle of an abandoned meat packing plant.  Trapped in a maze designed to kill, the two quickly discover yet another complication to their situation: one of them can’t speak English any more.
Series: It's a Magical Flashpoint [50]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/538363
Comments: 39
Kudos: 19





	1. Hot Call to Hell

**Author's Note:**

> This story is the fiftieth in the Magical Flashpoint series. It follows "Present Imperfect".
> 
> Although all original characters belong to me, I do not own _Flashpoint_ , _Harry Potter_ , _Narnia_ , or _Merlin_. I also do not own _Criminal Minds_ , which I've temporarily imported up north for this particular story; I've also done a little mixing and matching of the FBI Agents – you'll see why. *wink*

FBI Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner arched a dark brow at the man behind the desk, his expression skeptical. “Your top SWAT team _wants_ to work on our case?”

“Strategic Response Unit,” the black man corrected without rancor. “Talk before tactics. We profile our targets and do our best to get everyone out alive. We’re not straight SWAT.” He paused. “And yes, Team One _is_ interested in joining your hunt for this serial killer.”

Dark, almost black eyes snapped. “Why?” Hotchner demanded. If these officers thought they could make their _names_ catching a serial killer…

To the profiler’s surprise, the SRU’s commander sighed and ran a hand through his balding hair. “Your subject tried to snatch another woman today.”

The black-haired agent stilled. Tall, with a close cut haircut that practically _screamed_ federal agent, the stern, clean-shaven Hotchner was one of the most experienced members of the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit. Although his unit worked mostly in the United States, Toronto had contacted them for help dealing with a prolific serial killer with at least fifteen victims – thus far.

“Tried?”

Holleran flashed something that might’ve been a smirk. “Constable Lane and his brother happened to be in the area and…objected…to the kidnapping.”

Aaron’s eyes narrowed. “They just _happened_ to be there?”

“They were bringing her lunch.”

Hotchner whipped around, one hand automatically reaching for his sidearm before he registered that the man in the doorway wore sergeant’s chevrons and an SRU patch. Despite the agent’s years of experience, he hadn’t heard a _thing_ until the newcomer spoke. Shifting back, the profiler crossed his arms and waited, silently demanding the rest of the story.

The Sergeant, going bald just like his boss, huffed in resignation and stepped inside the office, closing the door. “Her name is Glynnis and she helped save my nephew’s life a year ago.”

“And you didn’t help her after that?”

Frustration glinted in hazel depths. “She didn’t want help. I offered, Eddie offered, heck, even Roy offered, but the only thing she wanted was enough money to head to the nearby liquor store.” The man blew out a breath. “We compromised on lunch, once a week, from a place she used to go to before she ended up on the streets.”

Hotchner frowned thoughtfully. “So she has a known routine?”

The Sergeant shook his head. “Every week is different,” he replied. “She picks the day and where we meet her – my team trades off who goes. This week Ed volunteered because his wife wanted to add a cupcake from her new catering business; Roy tagged along so Sophie would give him one too.”

Holleran snickered and the FBI agent felt a smirk tug at his mouth at the image of a grown man begging for a home-made cupcake from his sister-in-law. Clearing his throat, the profiler returned to the point. “They showed up at just the right time?”

A brief nod. “Eddie pulled his sidearm and Roy managed to get her away from the subject, but he scarpered before they could arrest him.” The officer straightened. “We owe her. _I_ owe her. This man would’ve killed her just like he’s killed all the other homeless he’s grabbed over the past month. He’s got to be stopped.”

Hotchner considered the Sergeant, his expression still. Permitting a group of cops with a _personal_ stake in the hunt went against his better judgment. On the other hand, most of the uniforms he and the other profilers were working with regarded the homeless as a nuisance. To have a group of officers who were _committed_ to catching this unsub, regardless of _who_ the victims were, would be an asset.

“You work under _our_ command,” the agent finally replied, his tone non-negotiable. “ _We_ are running this investigation, Sergeant.”

“Absolutely,” the other man agreed, another nod backing up his acceptance. “You’re the experts in this arena.”

Turning back to the commander, Hotchner inclined his head. “Your team can be spared? I can’t promise we’ll wrap this up in a week.”

Commander Holleran smiled tightly. “Sergeant Parker failed to mention Glynnis has also helped save _his_ life. We can manage however long it takes.”

Hotchner felt his brows shoot up. A homeless woman who’d saved a cop and his nephew? No wonder it was personal.

* * * * *

Gideon and Rossi were less than impressed with Hotchner’s decision. “You’re allowing a group of _personally_ involved officers onto the case?” David Rossi demanded sharply. The brown-haired man with a full head of hair and a neat graying beard shook his head in disapproval. Older than Hotchner by some years, the veteran profiler had, along with his partner Jason Gideon and mentor Max Ryan, helped pioneer the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit.

Despite the fact that he and Gideon were older and more experienced, both men preferred Hotchner’s hands on the reins of their unit. It meant less paperwork for them and the pair usually regarded the slightly younger man as a better leader than them. Usually.

“Aaron, a personal involvement could cloud their judgment,” Jason agreed. While Rossi dressed sharply in a black sports jacket, dark dress shirt, and jeans, Gideon preferred his more casual ensemble of a red knit pullover, striped shirt, and dark slacks. The profiler wore his thinning dark hair short; a strong nose was bracketed by thick eyebrows and intelligent brown eyes over a mouth more accustomed to stress and frowns than smiles.

Agent Hotchner sighed, not disputing the elder agents’ assessment. “It’s not just personal for _them_ ,” he replied quietly. “One of them rescued a woman from the unsub.” His colleagues stilled. “The woman has apparently been instrumental in saving Sergeant Parker as well as his nephew.” A pause, significant enough that the older profilers hiked inquiring brows. “Parker only mentioned his nephew.”

Rossi’s eyes narrowed. “Commander Holleran brought up the other rescue?”

A nod. “I don’t know the details, but we’ve got at least fifteen victims, all of them homeless.”

Gideon sighed heavily. “The detectives we’ve been working with have been…”

“Unenthusiastic,” Rossi concurred.

“These men _want_ to help,” Hotchner argued. “They _want_ to bring this unsub in and prevent any more deaths. Sergeant Parker has already agreed to follow our orders.” He turned away, rigidity deepening. “I don’t like this any more than either of you do. They _are_ personally invested in this case – that’s never a good thing – but we need to catch this unsub before any more homeless disappear.”

Rossi and Gideon considered, trading glances as they considered their younger colleague – and unit chief. At last Gideon allowed a soft, frustrated noise. “I don’t like it. But you’re right, Hotch. If these SWAT cops can catch our unsub, that’s what counts.”

A faint smile tugged at the stern agent’s mouth. “Strategic Response Unit, Gideon,” he corrected. “They took offence when I referred to them as SWAT.”

* * * * *

Sergeant Greg Parker nodded sympathetically as his latest witness expounded on the vile creature who’d tried to steal his volleyball two days back. The aforementioned volleyball, with Sharpie eyes and mouth, observed the interaction gravely from its perch in the witness’s shopping cart. Parker kept his eyes away from the open wine and vodka bottles also in the cart and mentally gave thanks that he did _not_ have an enhanced sense of smell in addition to his vision and hearing.

“And what did this individual look like, sir?”

“Eh?” The homeless drunk straightened as best he could, proudly adjusting his ragged long coat and vomit stained sweater. “Oh. Oh, yes, yes, yes, _ahem_ …what did the scoundrel look like?”

Greg waited patiently.

Bloodshot light blue eyes narrowed in earnest consideration. “Humph. Yes, yes… Now I remember. It was Moriarty! Yes…Professor James Moriarty…that’s the scoundrel…and why not!? After all, I _am_ Sherlock Holmes…”

Still muttering, the drunk trailed away with his shopping cart, unaware of the chortling over Team One’s comm or Parker’s slack-jawed gawp at his back. Spike and Lou were particularly gleeful as they traded movie villain references and speculated on which villain was most likely to steal a beach ball – or a tin foil hat.

“Okay, team, settle down,” Greg ordered after a minute or two. “What’ve we got?”

“Not a whole lot, Boss,” Lou admitted. “If this guy is luring his victims, you’d think there’d be a couple who weren’t interested.”

“But no one’s even noticed someone they don’t recognize hanging around,” Jules tacked on.

The Sergeant frowned thoughtfully. The profilers – and homicide detectives – had run all the known victims, finding no overt connection between any of them. The victims themselves had been different ages, genders, races, and hailed from vastly different backgrounds. Their only commonality had been their status as ‘homeless’. Based on that, the profilers had concluded their victims were being lured in some way – an assumption Greg agreed with.

Glynnis, their only known escapee, had eagerly reported that her would-be abductor had been offering her food and alcohol – he’d tried to grab her when she declined, knowing her meal was on its way and for once more interested in takeout from her favorite restaurant than alcohol. Greg regarded her decision as positive progress, but didn’t hold out any hope that Glynnis’ change of heart would last. Then again, last he’d seen, she’d been asking Eddie if cupcakes from Sophie could be added to her ‘standing order’.

“Okay, let’s keep interviewing people,” the Sergeant decided with a barely hidden sigh. “Hope we get lucky.”

His officers acknowledged and Parker mentally fortified himself before heading towards the next alley. Aslan spare him from delusional drunks that kept reminding him how _fortunate_ he was to have _avoided_ their fate.

* * * * *

Sam Braddock mentally gave thanks for his bullet-proof and equipment vests as the wrung-out, gap-toothed former prostitute again attempted to ‘lure’ him with her ‘wares’. Even if he _hadn’t_ had a girlfriend, he _wouldn’t_ have been interested, but she seemed to think his interview meant he wanted a little action.

The constable shifted, making sure to keep the woman in _front_ of him as she attempted to sashay closer and flirt. “So you knew the last victim?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say I _knew_ her,” the witness sneered. “I just saw her around. With a few johns here and there – you know how it is, officer.” Thin, emaciated shoulders lifted in a partial shrug. “She was nice enough. Didn’t bother a girl when she was busy, you know?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Sam agreed. “Do you know if she had any regular hangouts?”

The skeletal woman considered the question, but finally shook her head.

“Thanks for your time.” With that, Braddock did his best to disappear without enduring any more…overtures.

* * * * *

Constable Spike Scarlatti absently catalogued the man he was interviewing as he transcribed the witness’s slurred description of a suspicious character he’d seen hanging around one of the alleys where their last victim had disappeared from. Three layers of dust, dirt, and mud caked a winter jacket that _might_ have once been a royal blue, over two ragged sweaters – the witness had to be _sweltering_ in his three thick layers – and a pair of threadbare jeans with more holes than fabric. Stubble was growing into a scraggly, unkempt beard of wiry gray hair.

The suspicious character – possibly either Yoda, Darth Vader, or Emperor Palpatine – had apparently spirited the last victim away to face a trial of endurance and fortitude. Spike was impressed the ‘witness’ could even _pronounce_ fortitude, but tactfully did not voice his observation.

“Team, report in,” his boss requested wearily over the comm. After three days with no sign of their quarry, Spike understood the mix of frustration and exhaustion.

Lifting a finger in a silent ‘hold on’ request, he turned away from the witness. “Might have something, Boss.”

“What do you got?”

Consulting his notebook, Spike replied, “Got a gentleman here who might’ve seen…”

Brown eyes rolled up and the raven-haired cop went down as a pipe impacted the back of his skull.

* * * * *

“Spike?” Ed demanded. “Spike!”

Wordy, only two alleys over, was hustling towards his teammate’s location almost before his team leader yelled the bomb tech’s name.

“Officer down,” Sarge snapped, confirming the brunet’s worst fears.

“On my way,” the constable reported, his pace increasing to an all-out run. Drawing his sidearm, Wordy rounded the corner to see his teammate’s limp body being carried towards the opposite end of the alley. “SRU! Put him down!”

He caught the edge of a sneer as the subject turned his head.

“Don’t move!” Wordy yelled. “Put him down _now_!”

Spike’s body flew at him, followed by a flash of light, and a rusty tin can.

“Portkey!” That was all he had time for as the impact crushed the air out of his lungs. He felt his teammate shudder as the curse struck, then the tin can hit, dragging both of them away with a sickening lurch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...apparently I gave my employer a bit too much credit when I assumed that they'd want me to start at this new project this week. I may yet start this week, but, well, if I do, only the Almighty knows about it. On the positive side, this does mean I was able to get this new story up without issue.
> 
> I hope everyone is enjoying thus far and I will keep you updated on the work situation.


	2. Primary Language Fail?

Wordy yelped in a rather undignified fashion as the Portkey landed them in a dark room on a concrete surface. The bomb tech landed on top of him, once again flattening his chest and forcing him to gasp for air. He didn’t _dare_ throw Spike off…his teammate was seizing violently, forcing the brunet to grab the other in a bear hug to keep him from cracking his head open on the floor.

For several minutes, the big constable held his position, arms wrapped tight around his partner as Scarlatti’s body writhed, spasmed, and twitched, doing its best to dash itself to pieces. “Come on, Spike, stay with me.”

Thankfully, the bomb tech remained unconscious, oblivious to the tremors and muscle spasms his teammate fought on his behalf. When the involuntary movements slowed and finally stopped, Wordy carefully edged himself upright, keeping his teammate’s head somewhat cushioned on his chest. “That’s it, buddy,” the brunet whispered. “You’re okay, I got you.”

One hand found his radio. “This is Constable Wordsworth, any one copy?” Static hissed, but there was no response; Wordy grimaced – out of range, much as he’d suspected. It took a bit of juggling to reach his cell phone, but when he looked at the screen, his shoulders slumped. No service. Adjusting Spike, he located the bomb tech’s cell phone in a vest pocket, but it too displayed a disappointing lack of service.

Muttering under his breath about wizards, wards, and wand-wielding lunatics who thought ‘Muggles’ were fair game, the constable laid his partner out on the concrete, checking him for injuries. Blood marked the back of Spike’s head, adorning a developing goose egg, but when Wordy cautiously pushed his teammate’s eyes open, shining a tiny light in them, the pupils were even and responded to his flashlight.

Spike himself appeared paler than usual, an effect Wordy tentatively chalked up to the curse and whatever had collided with his friend’s skull, but his breathing was even and the goose egg comprised the whole of his injuries. After a thorough check, the brunet was satisfied his partner had escaped almost unscathed and started to investigate the room they were in.

The whole room was made of concrete – solid construction that reminded Wordy of a factory. The space itself was relatively small and a dusty scent lingered in the air. A storeroom of some kind? Three sides were nothing but wall, but the fourth was mounted with a thick, impressive steel door…one that was open. Wordy eyed it suspiciously – the Portkey had brought them _here_ , which meant their subject had almost certainly known about the door…and that it was _open_. While there was a remote possibility their subject _didn’t_ know his captives could escape, the constable rather doubted it, his well-honed instincts jangling.

Returning to his teammate, Wordy pulled Spike deeper into the shadows and settled in place next to him, sidearm drawn and his gaze fixed on the doorway.

_Come on, guys…find us…I know you can…_

* * * * *

A soft groan broke the silence that had settled around the pair. Wordy eyed the doorway, then slid his weapon away, taking the chance that since he and Spike hadn’t been disturbed thus far, he had time to check his teammate over again.

“Spike?”

Another groan rose from the younger constable and dark brown eyes flickered open. After a few seconds, they focused on Wordy and a faint grin tugged at Spike’s jaw.

Returning the grin, the brunet asked, “You okay, buddy?”

The tentative smile vanished into a frown, the bomb tech tilting his head to the side in confusion.

Gray eyes widened in alarm and Wordy helped Spike sit up, checking the back of his head as he did so. The bomb tech yelped when his teammate touched the lump, but subsided at Wordy’s absent swat to his reflexive reach.

“Anywhere else hurt?”

Instead of nodding or shaking his head, Scarlatti tilted his head to the side, mobile face twisting in confusion.

“Spike? Anywhere else hurt?”

Confusion and bewilderment deepened.

Darting a glance at the open door, Wordy maneuvered into the light, making sure his partner could see him clearly. Slowly, he asked, “Spike? Can you hear me?”

When the bomb tech simply stared at him in utter bewilderment, the big constable felt his heart drop. Thinking fast, Wordy frowned, then let his hands fly, ‘asking’ for a comm check.

Spike’s eyes narrowed, then he perked up and nodded. Yes, he could hear Wordy. Then he opened his mouth and asked something – well…Wordy was _pretty_ sure his teammate had asked something. The tone had been that of asking a question, but the babble had flown right over Wordy’s head. Waiting for an answer, the bomb tech started scanning the room, his usual inquisitive attitude reappearing.

The big constable nudged his partner, getting his attention again, then ‘asked’ Spike to repeat himself, slower.

Frowning, the lithe constable repeated himself, slowing his sentence considerably. Unfortunately, the repetition didn’t make him any clearer – Wordy blinked at the alien twists Spike’s tongue was making without visible effort. And yet, all the brunet could hear was the babble of a foreign language. Worse, it didn’t sound like Italian – he’d walked into the locker room a time or two to hear Sarge and Spike bantering back and forth in their hereditary language.

Biting his lip, Wordy dug out his friend’s phone and offered it back, along with a question. “Spike? Can you understand me?”

The bomb tech lit up at the sight of his phone, but didn’t seem to hear the question. He tapped at the phone, opening it up, then faltered, slim brows snapping together as he regarded the screen in befuddlement. Wordy held out his hand and Spike hesitantly dropped the phone into his teammate’s palm.

Frowning in concentration, Wordy opened up the smartphone’s options and located the language setting. Opening up the new menu, the big constable was pleasantly surprised to find that Spike already had Italian set as the phone’s second language. Tapping the language, Wordy nodded to himself and hit the back arrow. Turning the device, he offered it back to Spike with a hopeful expression.

Reclaiming his phone, the bomb tech scrolled up and down, his movements slowing in pure dismay. Finally he looked up and shook his head; Wordy’s heart dropped to his boots. But he had to be sure.

“Can you understand me?”

Confusion and befuddlement grew, a touch of panic entering his friend’s face.

Nothing for it. The constable lifted his hands, thought for a moment, then ‘asked’ if Spike had ears in.

Spike blinked, perplexed by the ‘question’. For a few seconds he considered Wordy, dark eyes flicking back and forth. Then he brightened, catching onto his friend’s _real_ question. Another stream of babble was followed by a hopeful expression.

Constable Wordsworth swallowed hard, then shook his head, slow and deliberate, even as his hands repeated his ‘question’.

Spike froze, his eyes darting down to his phone for an instant before they flew back to Wordy. Gulping, the bomb tech held out the smartphone, his other hand pointing first to the phone and then to his teammate.

The brunet took the phone, set the language back to English, then nodded in confirmation as he gave it back. Yes, he could read the writing.

Fear blazed across Spike’s face, his Adam’s apple bobbing at the force of his terrified gulp. His hand trembled and he nearly dropped the phone as he pointed to it and shook his head.

Wordy grabbed his friend’s shoulders, forcing Spike to look at _him_ instead of the phone. Out loud, he said, “Spike, it’s okay. We’re gonna figure this out and we’re gonna get through this.” The bewildered and fear-stricken expression on Scarlatti’s face nearly broke him, but he nodded once, then released his grip. Without missing a beat, his hands formed the signs for ‘connect, respect, protect’ and he finished by pointing first to Spike, then himself.

The other constable trembled, terror draping him like a cloak, but he followed the hand motions, desperate hope blazing. After a minute, Spike drew in a deep breath and repeated the hand signals, gesturing to Wordy before himself.

Wordsworth nodded.

A creak drew them both around, but it was only the steel door. Wordy set his jaw and drew his sidearm before glancing over at Spike, one brow hiking in question.

Spike glanced down, drawing a few more steadying breaths. Then he nodded back and drew his own weapon.

Ready.

Shoulder to shoulder and ready to go back to back at an instant’s notice, the constables edged out of the room, united despite their differing languages.


	3. Hunt for a Killer

Portkey. All by himself, Wordy had cracked the serial killer case wide open, answering the question of _why_ none of the homeless his team had interviewed had noticed any new faces around. Answering, too, the question of why they hadn’t found any homeless who hadn’t ‘taken the bait’, so to speak.

“Eddie?”

“No sign of them, Boss,” his team leader reported grimly.

Greg closed his eyes, both in regret and to reach for his ‘team sense’, furiously pouring his magic into locating his two constables. The two anchors vibrated, responding to him willingly – though he knew Spike was down – but then Wordy’s emotions cut off, Parker’s magic ramming into an all too familiar barrier. The Sergeant slammed his fist against the wall next to him, a low, furious snarl uncoiling in his chest.

“Boss?” Jules asked hopefully.

“Nothing.”

Lewis swore, but his boss couldn’t reprimand him. He felt like swearing too.

“Sam, Jules, check Wordy’s location,” Greg ordered. “Lou, go help Ed, see if you can find where our subject got away.”

“Could’ve Apparated,” Sam pointed out.

“Could have, but let’s see if we have any gateways nearby. On foot means he doesn’t leave a trail,” Parker countered.

“Boss, what about the profilers?” Lou asked. “How’re we gonna handle them?”

That, the negotiator realized, was a very good point. Young was right; this had just become an Auror matter – covered under the Official Secrets Act and requiring knowledge of magic to even _investigate_. Swallowing harshly, the Sergeant dug out his phone. “I’ll handle it. Keep looking; Eddie, you have command. Once you’re done checking for evidence, call Giles and see what he can find, copy?”

“Copy. You want us to head back once Giles is done?”

“Yes.” Parker’s jaw set as he moved. “Even if Giles can pick up a trail, we’re going to need reinforcements and a new plan.”

“Got it, Boss.”

* * * * *

The profilers acceded to his request for a private conference without protest – the oldest agents appearing rather smug. The negotiator suppressed a grim smile; he’d known perfectly well that none of the FBI profilers were enthused about recruiting a group of cops with a _personal_ stake in the case. Apparently, the oldest agents had expected his team to give up after a few days, hence their smug expressions.

Too bad he was about to ruin their day.

Inside the conference room and away from Homicide’s prying ears, Sergeant Parker pulled in a slow breath and turned to face the profilers. “As of thirty minutes ago, Constables Wordsworth and Scarlatti were kidnapped by our subject.”

Shock swept the room. “How?” Agent Reid blurted, clearly unnerved. “Weren’t they armed?”

“Yes,” Parker confirmed. “I suspect they still _are_ armed, as a matter of fact.” Setting his jaw, he added, “By now, Constable Lane has called in Detectives Roy Lane and Giles Onasi to help in the search.”

“That wasn’t your call, Sergeant Parker,” Agent Rossi observed, eyes hard in spite of his casual tone.

“It is now,” Greg countered firmly. “This investigation is now under Canada’s Official Secrets Act.”

To his complete surprise, all three older profilers paled in horror. “Our unsub is a…?” Agent Gideon choked off, catching himself just in time.

“A what?” Agent Morgan demanded, dark eyes fierce as he attempted to stare his superiors down. The rest of the profilers were equally curious. “Our unsub is a _what_?”

“He is,” the negotiator confirmed, privately amused at the ashen tones the ‘in-the-know’ profilers had assumed. Not to mention the puzzled and somewhat indignant glares coming from the others.

Agent Hotchner recovered first. “I assume Detectives Lane and Onasi are _also_ under the Official Secrets Act?”

“One of them is.” Amusement grew at the perplexed expressions he received.

“ _One_ of them?” Agent Rossi pressed.

“Yes.” the Sergeant frowned thoughtfully. If three of them _knew_ … “I’ll call in more backup if we need it.”

“You will?” Agent Gideon asked, more than a bit startled by the idea of _Parker_ calling in magical backup.

Oh. Right. Even if they _knew_ , they were likely used to being treated as _Muggles_. In the way nuisances, not _equals_. Clearing his throat, Greg indicated a private corner of the room and strode over, pulling his Auror badge as he moved. The three older profilers trailed over, curiosity peeking through the collective dismay. Then they got a good look at what he was holding.

“ _You_ …?” Agent Hotchner hissed.

“My entire team has been signed onto the Official Secrets Act for the past four, almost five years,” Greg replied smoothly. “We received our _badges_ ,” he gestured with the Auror badge, earning a nod from Agent Rossi, “about a year after that. Constable Wordsworth managed to alert myself and his teammates immediately prior to being kidnapped.”

The wallet snapped shut over the badge just as Agent Reid asked, “Alert you of what?” while he attempted to crane his neck past his shorter superiors.

“Spencer,” Agent Gideon rebuked quietly, pushing the tall, slender man back.

Agent Reid pushed his light brown hair out of his eyes, concern apparent as he regarded the older agent. “Sir, what’s going on?”

Without replying, Agent Gideon glanced over at Agent Hotchner; the black-haired man met his gaze, then shifted towards Agent Rossi, one brow arching. After a few moments, Agent Hotchner’s dark eyes landed on Parker. “What do you need from us, Sergeant?”

“If your fellow agents could keep the area contained, I’ll see if I can arrange for the three of you to tag along,” Greg offered.

“Tag along?” Agent Prentiss demanded, stiffening in indignation. From what his team had been able to pick up, she was one of only three women on the BAU’s front lines and the only profiler of the three. Tough and ambitious – the negotiator winced internally as he realized his choice of words had rankled all of the junior agents.

“Your…coworkers…would be willing?” Agent Rossi asked before Greg could figure out how to recover from his verbal fumble.

“I can’t promise,” the Sergeant admitted quietly. “But yes, I think they will be.”

* * * * *

Once in the truck, Greg cleared his throat and gestured to his comm before pulling out. “Eddie, what’s your 20?”

“No go on following the Portkey trail, Boss. Giles thinks an Old Religion spell must’ve been used nearby.”

“The Old Religion interferes with tracking spells?” That was news to the Sergeant.

“It sure does, Parker,” Auror Onasi replied. “Young found a gateway in the alley right next to the one Auror Scarlatti was in, but I _am_ picking up an Apparition trail, so our subject probably didn’t realize he was dealing with Aurors. I do have one question, though.”

“Yes?”

“What’s a serial killer?”

Parker nearly choked and someone – probably Sam – laughed. Then the negotiator sighed and shook his head. “Eddie, turns out three of our profilers are signed onto the Act.”

The team leader audibly chortled, picking up on his boss’s plan. “Copy that, Boss. You still want us to come in?”

“Negative; we’re on our way back now.”

Done with the update, Greg glanced over at Agent Gideon, riding shotgun while the other two profilers lurked in the back seat. The profiler’s eyes narrowed. “Your team holds rank in both the No-Maj _and_ the wizarding worlds?”

“Yes,” the Sergeant confirmed in a clipped tone.

“And this has been going on for five years?” Agent Hotchner asked.

“Yes.”

“You’re sure this unsub is a wizard?” Agent Rossi pressed.

“I am,” Parker replied. “Right before we lost contact, Constable Wordsworth yelled, ‘Portkey.’ Detective Onasi confirmed he’s been able to detect the use of a Portkey.”

Agent Gideon frowned thoughtfully. “Detective Lane is Detective Onasi’s partner? Is he also your constable’s brother?”

“He is.” Greg drew in a breath, gathering his thoughts. “Roy’s been working with Giles for about two years. It’s…been a bit of a wild ride.” Understatement.

The truck curved around and the Sergeant parked next to the patrol cars. “With me, gentlemen. We’ll have to walk the rest of the way.”

* * * * *

“What’s a serial killer?”

Aaron Hotchner blinked at the question, caught off guard. The veteran profiler did not, however, miss the suppressed sniggers coming from the SRU officers. And Parker’s expression was far too bland – they’d all known this question was coming.

David stepped in, though his disapproval towards the Canadians was evident. “The Unknown Subject has already killed at least fifteen people, Auror Onasi.”

“All of them homeless, Giles,” the Sergeant added quietly. “Each serial killer is different, but has the Auror Division ever dealt with a killer that had a certain…type…they preferred?”

“Moffet.” That interjection came from Constable Braddock, his gaze grim as he regarded his colleague. Although Hotchner was unfamiliar with the name, Onasi recognized it instantly – he choked in horror.

“The women in the desert,” he whispered, earning a solemn nod. “And now a killer like _that_ has Spike and Wordy?” Alarm ramped higher with each word.

“They’re still armed,” Constable Lane put in. “And this guy probably doesn’t know they’re Aurors.”

“Speaking of which,” Hotchner interrupted. “Can’t they just Disapparate or send a Patronus?”

“That,” a new voice announced, “would assume they have magic.” Hotchner turned, unsurprised by the robes and unsheathed wands. “Which they don’t,” the short, wiry wizard finished, dark eyes amused and his hair a pale blond.

“They don’t?” Gideon inquired, startled. “Since when does Canada have No-Maj Aurors?”

The wizard snorted, glancing past the FBI agents at his fellow Auror. “What’ve you got, rookie?”

“Portkey trail’s been obliterated by the Old Religion, sir, but there’s a crystal clear Apparition trail halfway between here and the gateway.”

“Humph. Not likely to be Parker’s kids, eh?”

“No, sir,” Onasi replied firmly as the three profilers traded puzzled glances – what did Sergeant Parker’s ‘kids’ have to do with anything? “We suspect Auror Scarlatti was interviewing the subject in connection to a rash of homeless killings and was attacked from behind when he reported in. Auror Wordsworth was able to reach Auror Scarlatti before the subject Disapparated and the subject kidnapped them with a Portkey.”

A grunt. “So if he had a Portkey, why not hitch a ride on that? Make a clean getaway?”

Hotchner cleared his throat. “We believe the Unknown Subject is torturing his victims before killing them.” Hesitating, he considered, working through his idea even as he spoke. “Perhaps the Portkey was set to go to a holding area of some sort, while he himself Apparated to another location.”

Skepticism blazed, but the wizard didn’t argue further. “So we need to play Follow the Leader, rookie?”

“Yes, sir,” Auror Onasi agreed. “It might be a straight trail since he doesn’t know we’re onto him.”

“We’ll see.” Turning to his people, the wizard barked, “Pick your partners and _don’t_ lose ‘em! You break ‘em, you answer to Locksley, understand? And you ugly mugs don’t have enough magic to out-duel _her_ – ‘specially if her nephew gets hurt.”

Braddock flushed bright red, but aside from a few grumbles, the hunting party was soon divided up and away. As Hotchner’s wizard partner Side-Along Apparated him, he did his best to figure out a way to get back at Parker for the nausea – not to mention the shock of finding out _No-Majs_ were working in _magical_ law enforcement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For any _Criminal Minds_ fans, yes, I know we never, ever saw Jason Gideon and David Rossi working together – for everyone else, Rossi was Gideon's replacement when Gideon's actor left the show abruptly. But seriously, Gideon, Rossi, and Hotchner are often portrayed as the older, more experienced profilers on the team – it would make _sense_ for them to know stuff the younger agents don't – like magic.
> 
> So, roughly, this is set Season 3ish for _Criminal Minds_ , in a shadowy world where Rossi came back before Gideon took off for parts unknown. I challenge any _Criminal Minds_ fans to figure out why the BAU is in _this_ particular story. *angelic author grin*
> 
> Also, on a RL note, apparently the left hand has absolutely no _idea_ what the right hand is doing when it comes to my employer. So I've been going through a background check and waiting on an ID getting created for the client company I was slated for. On Wednesday of last week, I was told that the process takes roughly 3-4 weeks and I figured I was probably in week 3, so maybe I'd spend another week on bench and then I'd be back on the job, in an established project as the new gal and life would be good (aside from the possible hour-long commute).
> 
> Then, on Friday, I and several others received an email that our project would start this week and there would be a meeting at our employer's hub today about that project. Came in and found out _now_ I'm on a brand-new project for a completely different client company and _I'm_ the experienced member of the team. Of the others, only one even has certification in Pega and the others are trained in another software - and they are _not_ happy to be doing Pega. One of them doesn't have _any_ Pega training whatsoever and he's trying to get taken off the project ASAP. In other words, right now, it feels like a giant trainwreck waiting to happen.
> 
> Sorry for the rant, ya'll, but I feel like the victim of a bait 'n' switch right now and I also feel like _I'm_ going to be expected to work miracles - and I can't shoulder the weight of a brand-new program all by myself. For cryin' out loud, I only have a year and a half of experience and I definitely was _not_ one of the senior people on that project. More like the junior developer working under several far more experienced and senior developers.
> 
> I hope ya'll enjoyed today's chapter and please pray for me and my coworkers.


	4. Surviving the Slaughter House

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There a few clues as to what Spike's mystery language is in this chapter, but for the most part, any sections with Spike's POV are in English, because, well, even if I _could_ write the whole thing in Spike's language, no one could _read_ it. And yes, it _is_ a real language and figuring out how to write in it actually gave me a bit more knowledge on how my computer works – win-win for everyone!

Scéaþ pawed at his phone as he and Wyrdig settled at a corner, scanning the corridor ahead for any obvious traps. The numbers were easy, but the _writing_ …it was pure nonsense to his eyes, refusing to make any sort of sense no matter what he tried.

He perked up when he found a program with a mix of pictures and writing, tapping on one picture at random. It came up on screen, with a list of gibberish below. Curious, he tapped the top line – and cringed as music filled the air. He hastily stopped the player as Wyrdig glanced back at him, one eyebrow hiking in bemusement. The sheepish bomb tech offered up an apologetic salute, his chagrin apparent.

The other constable shifted, then paused, expression considering. Abruptly, he holstered his sidearm and gestured for Scéaþ to do the same. Confused, but game, Scéaþ obeyed. Wyrdig pointed to himself and said, slowly and clearly, “Wordy.” Then he pointed to Scéaþ and said, “Spike.”

Scéaþ cocked his head to the side, then grinned as he caught on. He opened his mouth to reply, then Wyrdig waved him quiet and repeated his actions. Understanding, Scéaþ nodded and tentatively pointed to Wyrdig, one shoulder lifting in a shrug. _My turn?_ Wyrdig grinned and settled back on his heels.

Frowning, Scéaþ closed his eyes, focusing on how the words had _sounded_ coming out of his friend’s mouth. “Wordþ,” he pronounced carefully, opening his eyes back up to check.

Wyrdig nodded encouragingly, though Scéaþ caught a subtle tightening of his teammate’s eyes.

Scéaþ flashed a quick grin. “Spíké,” he tried, frowning to himself. The word didn’t _roll_ the way he expected it to, it was almost too _plain_.

Wyrdig nudged his shoulder, his hands moving in what was usually the signal for ‘situation contained’. Scéaþ sighed, but nodded acceptance. If Wyrdig thought he was close enough, then Scéaþ would too.

Careful to speak just as slowly and clearly as Wyrdig had, Scéaþ pointed to himself. “Scéaþ.” Pointing to his friend, he added, “Wyrdig.”

His fellow constable blinked, absorbing the names. He bit his lip, but listened closely as Scéaþ repeated himself. Then he tried, the first name twisting just as much in his mouth as his words had twisted in Scéaþ’s mouth. “Sceath?”

The bomb tech nodded.

Pointing to himself, the other offered a tentative, “Wrydig?”

Close enough, Scéaþ decided. Coming to a decision, he offered his phone back to Wyrdig. He couldn’t use it anyway and he couldn’t risk the thing making sound at _just_ the wrong time. His partner regarded the phone, then took it and played with it for several seconds before offering it back.

Scéaþ held up both hands, refusing to touch the device, and Wyrdig rolled his eyes. Pointedly, the other man opened up the player Scéaþ had found, then tapped the play button; Scéaþ froze in horror, then blinked in surprise at the lack of sound. Sheepish, he took his phone back and tucked it away.

Wyrdig offered a thumbs up and an inquisitive shrug, grinning when Scéaþ returned the thumbs up.

**“Let’s go,”** Scéaþ said before ducking his head in embarrassment and drawing his sidearm.

His partner didn’t understand the words, but he understood the rest. With a sharp nod of agreement, Wyrdig pulled his weapon and peered around the corner, one hand shaping an ‘all clear’ before the pair crept down the hallway, hyper-alert to anything out of the ordinary.

* * * * *

What an absolute mess. Spike was cringing and afraid of his own _phone_ , his self-confidence shaken to its core by the loss of his primary languages. Wordy had no doubt that his teammate was just as capable as ever – he’d caught onto the jury-rigged hand signal ‘communication’ without missing a beat – but the bomb tech was cringing at every little mistake he made.

Shaking the morose thoughts away, the brunet shifted closer to one wall, waving Spike to the opposite wall as they approached an open doorway. Their pace slowed at the sound of air moving through the room; Wordy pulled out his mirror, extending it over his sidearm, and flicked it out to check for traps.

Nothing.

Wordy retracted the mirror, tucking it away before glancing at his partner and signaling that _he_ would go first. The bomb tech scowled, but nodded acceptance.

Caution arched higher as Wordy edged through the doorway, then he blinked at what he was standing on. Broken glass. The room was _covered_ in shattered glass, piles of white shards rising here and there. Spike stepped in behind his teammate and the pair traded grimaces. All too easy to imagine what the razor-sharp fragments would do to anyone caught without protective footwear. Good thing they both had boots.

With the ground underneath them making silence impossible, the constables strode to the opposite doorway and exited, sidearms back up.

Outside the room, the SRU cops moved through the next hallway, scanning for more surprises. They found one at the end of the hallway. Spike yelped and shoved Wordy into the next corridor.

**“Run!”**

Stealing a glance over his shoulder, Wordy legged it, though he also pushed Spike in front of him – it was _his_ job to take the hits for his teammates. Behind them, the moving wall of spikes ensured they would _not_ be returning to either of the rooms they’d been in. A gap caught the brunet’s eye and he grabbed Spike’s arm, hauling him sideways to the relative safety of another hallway.

The spiked wall flew past them, embedding in the corridor’s end with a vicious _thud_ that shook the floor; Wordy shuddered at what an impact like that would do to a helpless human body.

Even though he knew it would do no good, he remarked, “You were yelling at me to run, weren’t you, Spike?”

Spike darted a glance at him, confusion evident. “Wyrdig?”

With a sigh, the brunet shook his head and turned to look down the next hallway. “Wonderful,” he groused under his breath as an axe chose that moment to swing through the hallway’s midpoint, between two other traps that stood between the constables and the far end.

* * * * *

Scéaþ didn’t know what Wyrdig had just said, but he could guess. **“Tomb Raider traps?”** he asked aloud, shaking his head in dismay. Traps like this – they were for video games and movies, not real life. Then again, Scéaþ realized wryly, the same could be said for magic.

Eyeing the nearest trap, a _lovely_ whirling spiked club of death, Scéaþ mentally ticked off the seconds, timing the rotation even as he also attempted to judge where the next ‘safe zone’ was. At first, it looked like there was no way past – the large club was spinning too fast for them to get by – but then Scéaþ glanced up and saw a metal pole attached to the ceiling. From the ground, Scéaþ couldn’t be sure that the pole would get them past the club, but they couldn’t just _give up_.

Nudging Wyrdig’s shoulder, he pointed upwards. Wrydig frowned thoughtfully, jaw furrowing as he gazed between the spiked club of death and the ceiling pole. After a minute, he reluctantly nodded confirmation and motioned that he would toss Scéaþ up first. The bomb tech measured the distance between the floor and the pole, cringing as he realized he would have to run up the wall – getting in range of the club – to reach the pole on his own.

Wyrdig positioned himself under the pole, interlacing his hands to give Scéaþ a boost. The lithe constable backed up as close to the wall as he dared, then charged forward, landing his boot in his teammate’s hands. Wyrdig hurled him upwards and Scéaþ latched onto the pole, clinging for dear life. Muscles screamed as Scéaþ swung his legs up and wrapped them around the cool metal. After a few false starts, Scéaþ figured out how to scoot himself forward along the pole, determinedly _not_ looking down at the death trap below him.

Behind him, he heard the sounds of Wyrdig jumping and grabbing onto the pole, his fellow constable grunting as he strained to keep up with his smaller, more agile colleague.

* * * * *

In the end, the pole _did_ successfully get them past the whirling spiked club of death, though Wyrdig had to snatch him away from a massive axe that sought to introduce itself to his skull; they both shuddered at the near miss. The axe’s movements were much slower than the spiked club, allowing the constables to sneak past one by one as long as they timed it just right.

Past the axe was an open pit with a rope stretched across the top of it; curious, Scéaþ peered over the edge and jerked back in horror. Skulls and the bones of previous victims leered up from the forest of densely packed, razor sharp wooden poles.

“They got impaled,” Wyrdig breathed, his voice full of horrified fury.

Though Scéaþ couldn’t understand, he nodded grimly and turned his attention to the rope. It was clearly their only way across, but the bomb tech had _no_ intention of allowing either himself or Wyrdig to end up dead at the hands of this…death trap.

“Spike, relax.”

Puzzled, Scéaþ glanced up at his teammate. Then his eyes widened in fear as Wyrdig calmly stepped onto the rope; fear turned to astonishment as the big, husky constable walked along the rope without even _once_ slipping.

On the other side, Wyrdig turned around, grinned, and gestured to his boots before waving his teammate forward. “Spike, come on. We always use our special boots, remember?”

When Scéaþ, his terror palpable, shook his head and backed away, Wyrdig sighed and put one foot back on the rope. Scéaþ frantically waved for his teammate to stop; Wyrdig nodded and stepped away, his expression one of expectation and encouragement.

**“Here goes nothing,”** Scéaþ muttered to himself and he warily edged out on the rope, doing his best to keep his balance on the slim tightrope. To his surprise, it was _easy_. Effortless, as though his boots were doing most of the work _for_ him. Understanding broke through – they _were_. Despite the magical boots, Scéaþ hustled across and refused to look down.

Once across, he was caught off guard; Wyrdig had his notebook and pen out. His fellow constable shook his head sadly as he turned the paper. Most of the writing was beyond Scéaþ’s comprehension, but the number eight was clear. Cautiously, the bomb tech returned to the pit and counted the skulls he could see. Glancing back at his partner, he nodded somber agreement, then hiked both shoulders and pointed back at the three other traps.

Discouraged, Wyrdig shook his head, tucking the notebook away to signal ‘all clear’. Though normally ‘all clear’ was a good thing, Scéaþ sighed unhappily to himself – there was really no way for them to know how many homeless hadn’t made it past the first three Tomb Raider traps.

Sorrowful, he straightened and pulled his sidearm, determined that, no matter _what_ , the traps were _not_ going to get him and Wyrdig. Not. A. Chance.

* * * * *

The next room was large and open; the two officers slowed to a crawl as they inspected their surroundings, hyper-alert for the next trap both were _certain_ was waiting for them. A third of the way into the room, Scéaþ noticed a translucent figure drifting to and fro; he tapped Wyrdig’s shoulder and gestured up at the specter.

His partner frowned thoughtfully, inspecting the ghost. After a few seconds, he glanced over at Scéaþ and pointed back at the traps they’d escaped, an inquiring expression on his face. Scéaþ considered, then shook his head. The ghost had no ‘bloodstains’ on it; nothing to indicate it had met the grisly end most of the Tomb Raider victims had suffered.

The specter drifted closer, finally noticing it was no longer alone. A dreadful moaning rose; both constables winced at the sound.

**“Beware,”** the ghost cried. **“The dead rise to take their vengeance on the living. Beware!”**

A frothing rose from the hallway that led to the Tomb Raider traps; Scéaþ yelled, shoving Wyrdig toward the exit. **“Run, run!”**

* * * * *

The last time Spike had panicked and presumably yelled for him to run, his teammate had been very, very right. Accordingly, Wordy darted towards the open doorway, Spike right on his heels. About to steal a glance back, the brunet felt his power armlet pulse and his peripheral vision caught a flash of gray; instinct screamed and he rammed himself sideways into his teammate, hurtling them both to the ground. Spike struggled and Wordy hastily covered the other man’s mouth, craning his neck to see through the doorway.

Zombies. No. Inferi. Though most of them were skeletons, a few still sported decaying flesh and ragged strands of gore-slicked hair. They milled about, looking as if they were searching for something to do, but the brunet constable knew better. Inferi weren’t human any more. They were nothing but puppets, dancing to a Dark Wizard’s tune. He shuddered – the things hadn’t seen them yet, but if they _did_ …

Carefully, with his free hand, Wordy worked an incendiary grenade free from his belt, silently giving fervent thanks that his team _always_ carried their goblin gear, just in case. He brought the grenade up, using his teeth to yank the pin out, then lobbed it into the next room.

Fire boomed, echoing in the tiny area, and Inferi howled agony. Wordy turned his face away, focusing on his trembling, terrified teammate, and waited for the screaming to stop.

It took a very long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... Not much has changed on the RL front since Tuesday, although my new 'team' isn't acting much like a team as of yet. I've been trying, but so far, only one person seems to be willing to respond. Frankly, it's been a very discouraging week.
> 
> Which brings me to my request of all of you. I would really, really appreciate it if more of you could leave comments.
> 
> As I've said before in other stories: comments are gold and prayers are diamonds - and I still believe that, but much as I love prayers, I can't go and re-read prayers. I can't respond to prayers or get an impression of how readers see the events in my stories. And much as I know prayer is important, I can't be encouraged by prayers in the same way as I am with each comment left on any of my stories. Now, I admit, I'm just as guilty as anyone else of reading a great story and wandering off without leaving any comments - so most of the time, I do regard my lack of comments as my just desserts (even as I am discouraged by it).
> 
> Please don't misunderstand; I will continue to post each Tuesday and Friday regardless. Even if I suddenly stop getting comments at all, I will keep going, although that outcome would be yet another discouragement for me. But please, at least consider leaving me at least one comment per story. I'd love more comments per chapter, but more per story would be wonderful.
> 
> As a final note, I apologize to those who do regularly comment. I don't like sitting (or reading) through something I feel doesn't apply to me and I apologize for doing that to my regular commenters. Outside of my end-of-story notes, I will try not to do a message like this again.
> 
> Have a great weekend everyone and Happy Reading!


	5. Unsubs and Subjects

The first time Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner encountered magic was on one of his first BAU cases. A junior profiler still learning the ropes, he’d been working with David Rossi on trying to catch a serial killer murdering young children. All of the victims had been eleven, from well-to-do middle class families who were utterly devastated at the loss of their children.

At first, the parents had been suspected, based on the age and condition of the victims, but as the body count racked up and detectives failed to find signs of abuse in any of the home situations, they’d called in the BAU. David had examined all the reports and interviewed all the families, asking one question in particular that puzzled his younger colleague.

_“Did your child ever do anything…odd? Something out of the ordinary, more so than any of your other children.”_

Curiously, the families had all gotten…twitchy…at the question. Then they’d strenuously denied noticing any such thing. That they’d been lying was obvious, but Aaron hadn’t had the faintest clue _why_. Why lie about something that could help the investigation and catch their children’s murderer? Even more bewildering, David hadn’t called any of the parents out; he’d just nodded and moved on.

Later, he’d overheard his supervisor making a call, his voice low enough that Aaron hadn’t been able to hear the conversation. By the next day, a pair of no-nonsense men in rather outlandish clothing had turned up and taken over the entire investigation. Hotchner wouldn’t have found out even _then_ , but the next victim hadn’t been alone – the entire family had been slaughtered with an eerie green snake and skull left hovering over the home.

By the end of the whole debacle, Aaron had been firmly of the opinion that even the ‘good’ wizards were arrogant jerks who thought you needed magic to do anything worthwhile. He’d also been quite keen to avoid ever crossing paths with the wizarding world ever again, an opinion his two superiors shared.

Over the years, there had been a hint or two of magic in various investigations, but nothing overt; it had been easy to keep his subordinates away from the those hints and the world that lay beyond them. The agent’s most recent experience of the magical world had been when he and Gideon were pulled in to profile a criminal wizard who’d been captured after engineering two prison breaks and framing a group of Canadian Aurors for his crimes. They’d gone through the former American Auror’s files with a fine toothed comb, given their assessment to the wizard’s rigidly livid superior, and returned to the FBI with a sense of real relief to escape the magicals so quickly.

To find out they’d been working with _No-Maj_ Aurors was almost more than Aaron Hotchner could fathom. From the very beginning, the wizards he’d encountered had made it clear: No-Majs were inferiors to be coddled, protected, and pushed aside as nuisances. Not respected as equals – _perish_ the thought! And yet, it was plain to see that Auror Onasi’s partner was just as No-Maj as Hotchner himself. Plain that Onasi himself carried both wand _and_ gun; since _when_ did _wizards_ carry guns?

Senior Auror Simmons treated the SRU cops as respected coworkers – though he avoided Sergeant Parker – and had already swooped down on a member of his squad, scolding the man furiously for nearly leaving Constable Callaghan behind on the last Apparition jump. The woman in question stepped in, soothing ruffled feathers on both sides like the negotiator she clearly was – and they _listened_ to her. On the opposite side of the clearing, Detective Lane and Auror Onasi traded absent jabs as the latter hunted for their next clue.

“Not what you’re used to?”

Aaron turned, one hand reaching for his sidearm before he registered Parker’s faintly amused expression. The profiler weighed the other man for several seconds before shaking his head. “Not at all.”

The Sergeant inclined his head. “It’s taken a lot of work to get this far,” he admitted quietly. “That first year, they only called my team in three times and we were expected to abide by _their_ rules of engagement. When Sam joined the team, our liaison ran me in paperwork circles, trying to get me to kick Sam off the team instead of letting him in on our magic-side calls.”

Dark eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“That’s Sam’s story, not mine.” Parker sighed, running a hand over his head. “Every ounce of respect you see here; we’ve fought for it, bled for it, even nearly died for it.”

“Why fight for it at all?” Hotchner asked. “Surely they would’ve let you walk away.”

“At what cost, Agent Hotchner?” The shorter man’s hazel eyes went distant for a moment, then he visibly shook himself. “Every member of my team thinks it was worth it; we were willing to stay, willing to fight for our right to show these guys what we could do.” He gestured to Constable Young. “Lou nearly died to a land mine – he _would_ have died if we hadn’t found out about magic.”

Hotchner froze. “A wizard rescued a _No-Maj_?” he hissed.

Sergeant Parker cast him a reproving look. “Yes. _Mio nipote_ , Lance.”

The Italian threw him for a second, then the agent’s eyes widened. Parker’s kids. “Your nephew has magic?”

A brief nod. “Look, I understand if you don’t trust magic. If American Aurors treat your people the same as our Aurors treated mine, then I get it. Really. But my team wouldn’t trade the magic for the _world_. Wordy’s three little girls are witches, _mio nipotes_ are purebloods, and magic has saved virtually every member of my team at least once.”

At what cost. If his own unit had owed magic for their lives… Aaron arched a brow. “Did you know our unsub was a wizard when your team joined the hunt?”

“No.” A grimace. “Believe me, that caught us as much off guard as it caught you. But it makes sense.”

“We never found any witnesses that turned our guy down,” Constable Braddock put in from the opposite side – at least _he_ made noise when he moved, unlike his boss.

Agent Hotchner frowned, his brow furrowing. “So any one he approached ended up a victim?”

“With the exception of Glynnis, yes,” Parker affirmed sorrowfully. “Even if they refused, all he had to do was throw a Portkey at them.”

As their unsub had done to Constables Wordsworth and Scarlatti.

“Oy! Got something!” Detective Lane yelled.

“Let’s move,” Simmons growled. “Rookie, take your partner.” He raised his voice. “The _rest_ of you, pick new partners and if any of you idiots leaves your partner behind _again_ , I’ll dump what’s _left_ of you on Locksley’s desk, understand?”

Hotchner blinked, surprised all over again at how _fierce_ the wizard was in defense of his _No-Maj_ coworkers.

* * * * *

Scéaþ winced as the ghost spied the flames engulfing the Inferi and wailed anguish. Abruptly, the specter swooped past the two constables and into the inferno, still shrieking in grief. Scéaþ gazed after the thing, shivering as realization crashed down. He’d nearly pushed them both into the trap. If Wyrdig hadn’t seen the Inferi…he would’ve hit them first. A vision of the other man throwing him to safety while Wyrdig himself was ripped apart by monsters ran through the bomb tech’s head; he cursed his imagination – and himself.

The fire was dying down, leaving only ashes where there had once been a horde of Inferi, thirty strong. Wyrdig crawled to his feet, but Scéaþ stayed where he was, shaking with shame and horror. His friend could have died, could’ve ended up as an Inferius – he’d nearly gotten his teammate _killed_.

“Spike, come on.”

Dully, he looked up, recognizing his own name, but unable to process anything more than his near betrayal. Wyrdig should leave him, get to safety – what good was he now? Why had he trusted some strange ghost over his training? Over his experience?

“Spike? You okay?”

What was he if he couldn’t help his team with technology? If he couldn’t even _talk_ to them? Scéaþ huddled in on himself, trembling and curling away from Wyrdig’s worried expression. He was useless now, deadweight that had nearly pushed his partner into a horde of zombies. He couldn’t communicate, couldn’t use his phone, couldn’t do _anything_.

_Whack_. Scéaþ yelped, one hand flying to the lump on the back of his head as he gazed up accusingly at Wyrdig. **“That hurt,”** he complained before cringing back. Wyrdig wouldn’t understand…

“It was supposed to.” Wyrdig’s response was wry, if incomprehensible. “Spike, snap out of it. I know you’re scared, but you’re better than this. We’re gonna get through this, I promise. This guy can’t stop _us_ and our team’s gonna _find_ us. They’re lookin’ for us right now, I _know_ they are.”

His head throbbed and he _still_ didn’t understand a _word_ out of Wyrdig’s mouth. Perplexed and confused, he gazed up at his teammate in pure bewilderment. Wyrdig knelt, sighing as his hands flew into motion. He turned towards the doorway, two fingers pointing to his eyes, then he gestured sharply at the door. The message was clear. _Focus._ Turning back towards Scéaþ, Wyrdig added one more chain of hand signals. Connect, respect, protect.

After a minute, Scéaþ nodded, signaled the same back to Wyrdig, and pushed himself back to his feet, drawing his sidearm as he did so. Wyrdig grinned, tossed him a thumbs up, and assumed the lead.

* * * * *

The Inferi room was scorched and smelt of cooked, decaying flesh; Scéaþ made a face, grateful when Wyrdig picked up his pace to get away from the smell. The next few corridors held no surprises, though the constables moved with exquisite care nonetheless; Wyrdig checked every corner with his mirror before they advanced and Scéaþ kept his eyes peeled for any more spike walls. At last they found a staircase leading up; though they scouted for another way out, the staircase was their only route forward.

Sighing, Wyrdig holstered his weapon, pushing the retention hood on his holster back up and into place. Turning, he gestured for Scéaþ to do the same. Reluctantly, Scéaþ obeyed, understanding his partner’s concern. They couldn’t risk losing their sidearms to any potential gymnastics they might have to do in the staircase. That the staircase held the next trap was a given; the only question was what _kind_ of trap it was.

Inside the stairwell proper, Scéaþ gazed upwards, wincing internally. Two staircases rose to the next level, each a potential _wealth_ of deadly traps. At first, however, nothing happened as they ascended the stairs, cautious, wary, and slow. Partway up, Scéaþ noticed Wyrdig’s steps were lagging, though the bigger man kept climbing. On the first landing, Wyrdig’s head started bobbing, as if he was struggling to keep his eyes open.

“Wyrdig?”

Dull gray eyes shifted in his direction, but Wyrdig didn’t respond; he just headed for the next staircase. Three steps up, he went down, Scéaþ yelping in dismay as he caught over two hundred pounds of deadweight. Wyrdig’s runic bracelet glowed green, the golden armlet above it pulsing as the crystals sought to keep the healing runes charged. Scéaþ coughed, his eyes widening in terror.

Gas.

Grabbing hold of Wyrdig’s vest, he hauled the other constable up the stairs and threw them both at the door, snatching it open, thrusting his partner through, and slamming it behind him. Outside, in the relatively clean atmosphere, Scéaþ gasped for air, doing his best to cough up the gas; he pounded Wyrdig’s back, triggering a spasm of hacking in the unconscious man, but Wyrdig didn’t awaken. His healing bracelet glimmered, its runes tracing a trail of emerald across the surface. Damage then, damage that would take time to heal.

He was alone, in a maze of death traps with an unconscious, helpless partner.

Just as Scéaþ was coming to this realization, he heard a low growl and slowly turned his head to see a pack of Crups **(1)** right behind him. The lead Crup snarled and lunged for the techie’s throat.

* * * * *

Greg felt a low snarl building in his chest as their suspect calmly denied he’d done anything wrong. Simmons’ dark eyes were narrow and furious; behind him, his men pointedly fingered their wands, but as yet, all they had was an Apparition trail and _suspicions_. It wasn’t enough.

The wizard smiled in a chiding fashion. “Come now, what concern is this to _Aurors_? Let the Muggles bury their own; a few dead Muggles is hardly cause for alarm.”

“They’re still human beings,” Simmons pointed out before Team One could. “Murder is murder, regardless of who the victim is.”

Cold gray eyes regarded the Senior Auror, then swept to his companions. Abruptly, the wizard sharply inhaled. “You have Muggle law enforcement _with_ you? Are you _mad_ , Auror?”

“Actually,” Sam put in with a shark’s grin. “ _We’re_ Aurors, too.”

The suspect turned on his heel and Disapparated.

“Rookie!” Simmons roared.

“Got him, sir!”

“Partner up and _move!_ ”

* * * * *

Six jumps later, Greg was grateful his Squib-born core was cushioning the effects of multiple Disapparitions in a short period of time. Of the ‘Muggles’, he was the only one still on his feet; even Sam was dry-heaving. Unfortunately, their suspect was now doing his best to throw off pursuit, which meant frantic Apparitions hither, thither, and yonder.

“Got him, sir!”

Simmons snarled and multiple _cracks_ rang out as they Disapparated yet again.

* * * * *

They landed right next to the subject, the wizard turning with wide eyes even as Greg went for his weapon. “SRU! Don’t move!” he yelled. His sidearm rose, snapping on target even as the wizard started to Disapparate again.

The gryphon snarled and Parker’s gun went off, striking the subject’s left shoulder. The wizard was thrown back, blood spraying from the injury. He looked up, meeting the furious Sergeant’s feral expression. Then he smirked and yelled, “ _Bedyrene me! Astyre me thanonweard!_ **(2)”**

Wind roared, whipping around the wizard, and then he was gone, leaving the Aurors in the dust and Greg at the mercy of a trio of death glares from the profilers.

_What have I done?_

[1] A Crup is a canine magical creature quite similar in appearance to a Jack Russell Terrier – with a forked tail. The wizard-bred animals are very aggressive towards technologicals.

[2] Old English for ‘Conceal me! Guide me away from here!’


	6. Of Scorpios and Scorpions

Wyrdig saved him; Scéaþ snatched a grenade from his teammate’s belt and hurled it right into the jaws of the lead Crup. The pack wailed as the flash bang went off, pounding them with light and noise. Snatching at his precious few seconds, Scéaþ felt for his partner’s gun, leveraging his thumb on the retention hood’s release and shoving it forward as he drew the weapon. He rolled, firing almost before he finished moving; the lead Crup, still whimpering from the flash bang, went down with a canine-like cry. Scéaþ cringed internally, but kept firing. If the Crups reached him, they would kill him – and Wyrdig, too. Wyrdig was a Squib, after all – the animals might not be able to _sense_ his magical core.

Over and over again, Scéaþ pulled the trigger, until the gun was empty and all of the Crups were dead, not even twitching any more. Then he sagged, panting in a mix of relief, regret, and anguish. He _loved_ dogs – when he’d been little, his Mōdor had gotten him a Dalmatian puppy. The poor little thing had been deaf, but all that meant was he needed a bit more training. A bit more patience, care, and caution, particularly since he couldn’t hear any commands – or cars.

In the end, his pet had lived to a ripe old age of twelve and died peacefully in his sleep; Scéaþ hadn’t had the heart to replace his beloved companion, though he still loved dogs in general and Dalmatians in particular. To shoot a magical creature that looked so much _like_ a dog hurt, even though he knew there hadn’t been a choice. Crups were _vicious_ towards techies – he wasn’t sure if Squibs were safe, but _he_ certainly didn’t possess enough magic to satisfy a Crup.

After a few minutes, Scéaþ slid Wyrdig’s sidearm back in its holster, nudging the hood back into place before pulling his own weapon. Grimacing, he dragged the unconscious man past the dead pack of Crups and made his way down the hallway, alert for the next trap and painfully aware that Wyrdig was now totally dependent on him _not screwing up_.

* * * * *

Scéaþ eyed the staircase unhappily. Hauling Wyrdig down the steps _guaranteed_ a forest of bruises, but the other man wasn’t even stirring and Scéaþ had a nasty feeling that if he tried to stay put for any length of time, a trap would find _them_. Grimacing, Scéaþ tightened his grip on Wyrdig’s vest and edged into the stairwell. Partway down the first flight, his feet went out from under him; the constable yelped, reaching for the railing, but the stairs had vanished, turning into a slide that sent both men hurtling downwards. Scéaþ slammed into the wall; stars danced in front of his eyes as gravity hauled him sideways and down the next flight.

The pair thumped down another two flights before he landed on the ground, air coming out in a rush as Wyrdig landed on his back. Groaning, Scéaþ struggled to push himself up, before flopping back down. His head throbbed, he couldn’t get enough oxygen, and his vision was blurry. A hiss forced his eyes back open and the bomb tech caught a flash of yellow and tan right before pain erupted.

Scorpions. Talk about irony.

Blackness beckoned and he slid into it gratefully, leaving poisoned agony behind.

* * * * *

_I can’t move,_ was his first coherent thought on waking. Pain raged through his very _blood_ ; he writhed helplessly against the magic around him, his jaw howling to be released. He _wanted_ to scream, to cry out, but a spark of determined pride locked his teeth together. Aside from a muted whimper, the bomb tech didn’t make a single sound.

For the first time in his life, he understood the word _excruciating_. Understood it in a personal, intimate fashion that maxed out his capacity for pain and demanded more. Tears forced their way out of eyes dark with agony, but Scéaþ refused to give in. It wasn’t over until he was _dead_.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Wyrdig on the floor. The other man was still unconscious, but maybe…

“Wyrdig,” he called, a tiny scream behind the word. **“Wake up!”**

**“He’s dead, Muggle,”** an unfamiliar voice sneered. **“He can’t help you now.”**

Scéaþ turned his head the other way, hate glowing in the depths of dark brown eyes as his eyes landed on his former witness. The wizard was no longer in the rags he’d been using as a disguise. Solid black robes were styled in a distinctly Death Eater fashion and Scéaþ caught sight of a bone-white mask on another table behind the wizard.

**“I confess I am impressed the pair of you made it this far,”** the wizard continued, his tone nonchalant, as though Scéaþ and Wyrdig had simply made it through an obstacle course instead of a maze of death traps. **“Never before have the scorpions tasted blood.”** Scéaþ’s skin crawled – how many had this monster killed? They’d probably never know.

Then the wizard turned and Scéaþ caught sight of his captor’s left shoulder – or rather, what was _left_ of it. Blood ran freely from the wrecked joint and Scéaþ’s jaw furrowed. It looked like someone had shot the man with a _military_ caliber round – a standard Glock round wouldn’t cause _that_ much damage…would it?

A snarl surfaced. **“Hope that hurts like hell, you miserable excuse for a _wizard_ ,”** Scéaþ spat.

The wizard whipped back, pale blue eyes widening in shock. **“You know about magic?”**

**“Duh,”** Scéaþ sneered. **“I’m an _Auror_ , Death Eater scum.”**

For a long moment, the antagonists stared at each other. Then the Death Eater laughed, a high, piercing sound. With a flourish, he pulled his wand and strolled to Scéaþ’s opposite side. Angling his wand at Scéaþ’s chest, he retorted, **“Not as much as this will.”**

Escape was impossible with a modified body-bind wrapped around him. Fresh agony engulfed the bomb tech as his chest shrieked; the wand was cutting into his _flesh_. Anguish marched in a steady line from near his shoulder towards the center of his chest. The constable longed to thrash away as pain and agony met in one horrified realization – the wizard was doing an _autopsy_. On a living victim. Would he still be alive when the wizard started removing his internal organs?

Flesh sizzled and parted as the wand’s beam bit into him. Scéaþ felt the first scream wrench free, heard the Death Eater’s laughter rise above it. Something flashed overhead; the wand vanished, leaving charred skin and freshly flowing blood. He heard a snarl from off to his left, but couldn’t turn far enough to see what was happening. Pants, grunts, the sound of a spell, a yelp as the curse struck home, then the _smack_ of fist against jaw.

Second ticked by, agonizing in their pain and slowness. He couldn’t see, couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Air rasped through his lungs, carrying liquid fire that fed the lava in his blood. Each heartbeat spread the poison farther, until it felt like his veins were burning from the inside out. Blood roared in his ears, blurring the sounds of the battle nearby. Vaguely, he heard something that sounded like a gasp for air, overlaid by a muted grunt. Then the sound of another spell, though this one struck the wall.

_Please. Please make it stop. It hurts, oh, God, it hurts. Make it stop._ Death wouldn’t be so bad if he didn’t hurt any more. He wanted to give up, wanted it to _stop_. The blood stopped roaring, his ears almost hypersensitive as he picked up more grunts, more snarls, a yowl of pained outrage, then a slam as someone was shoved into the ground. _Please, make it stop. Just make it stop._

If he could have, Scéaþ would’ve jumped at the death rattle. Someone was dead; the winner was gasping, panting for air Scéaþ wished he could get. He heard the survivor stagger to his feet and did his best to stiffen. Not that he could do much with a body-bind wrapped tight around him. He waited for the touch, the arrogant laugh, the searing pain of the Death Eater’s wand biting into him again.

“Spike.”

_Wyrdig?_

Scéaþ could’ve cried; Wyrdig was _alive_. Fingers slick with blood touched him, dragged him onto his side, and he took in his partner – the other man was covered with blood and more flowed from a ragged wound on his chest. The Death Eater’s spell had punched through Wyrdig’s bulletproof vest and his friend was fading fast.

“Come on, Spike.” A shaky pause, then a shakier laugh. “Figures. Body-bind. Okay, Wordsworth, Sarge did it – you can do it, too.”

**“Don’t,”** Scéaþ begged. **“Save yourself.”** But Wyrdig didn’t understand him any more than he understood Wyrdig.

“Spike, just…tell Shel I’m sorry. Geez, I wish you could understand me.” Blue light gathered around the panting constable. “Hold on, Spike, I’ll have you out in a sec.”

“Wyrdig, **don’t. Stop! You’ll hurt yourself!”**

But Wyrdig didn’t stop; the glow of crippled magic grew, gathering around its source. A scream rent the air and Wyrdig collapsed forward, landing on Scéaþ’s chest as the body-bind shattered. Scéaþ’s own scream rang out, but Wyrdig lay limp, unaware of the anguish he’d unintentionally inflicted on his partner. Pain rolled Scéaþ sideways and he threw up before passing out.

* * * * *

Agony dragged him conscious again after only a few minutes. Groaning, Scéaþ pushed himself as upright as he could manage, doing his best to survey the situation. Wyrdig still lay across him, limp, bleeding, and passed out. Beyond his partner’s form, half sprawled on the table Scéaþ had woken up on and half sprawled on the floor, the subject lay in a pool of his own blood, dead eyes staring upwards.

Livid marks stood out on the man’s neck and Scéaþ choked back fresh bile; Wyrdig had strangled his opponent. Yanking his gaze away from the dead man, Scéaþ scanned the rest of the room, shuddering when he spied the scorpions behind some sort of magical barrier. Unfortunately, the deadly creatures were between the captives and the door. And even more unfortunately, Scéaþ knew he didn’t have enough strength left to drag Wyrdig _anywhere_ , scorpions or no scorpions.

He was injured, Wyrdig was injured – they’d both been stung by poisonous scorpions and Wyrdig was bleeding out from the Death Eater’s curse. Oh, yes, that was right: he was doing the same. Scéaþ closed his eyes in exhaustion and regret. They’d made it this far and they were just going to die here…meters from safety and freedom.

**“I’m sorry, guys,”** Scéaþ whispered. **“We tried, but it just wasn’t enough…”**

A sound drew him up and around.

A wand lifted.

Blackness took him.

_~ Ad Alia_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To Be Continued... *cue ending _Flashpoint_ music*
> 
> I hope everyone enjoyed the story (for those of you who aren't screaming over the cliffhanger) and, as always, I much appreciate any and all comments.
> 
> Instead of dragging this author's note out, our next story, "Go Sailing No More", will kick off on Tuesday, February 11th, 2020.
> 
> Also, in a quick RL update, the right hand _really_ doesn't know what the left is doing because in our employer's computer system, all six of us have been shuttled back to bench! We are _highly_ unimpressed, but only our manager can fix it. We've also found out that we're essentially on hold until a Pega Lead can arrive/be assigned to the project. So...I'm taking my paper notebook to work and am praying that my wrist doesn't develop carpel tunnel from all the writing. On the plus side, this probably means I will finish all my planned writing for Season Four by the end of this weekend. Next week at the longest.
> 
> See you on the battlefield!


End file.
